


the way our horizons meet

by ohmyheartsbeentried



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, M/M, Pack, Pack Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 09:30:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10761465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyheartsbeentried/pseuds/ohmyheartsbeentried
Summary: You could lose it all. Again. You could lose them. You could losehim. And you know you couldn’t go through it again. You’re not sure who you’d be without them, if you had to start over again.ORA little second person drabble from Derek's POV about the growth of the pack and his relationship with Stiles.





	the way our horizons meet

You’re not sure when it happened. You’re not sure how it happened. Maybe it was a gradual occurrence. All you know is that one minute you’ve got a bunch of naive, annoying, high school kids all over your territory, your childhood home, your history - and the next, you realize you’ve gained friends, a second family, a pack. 

No one could replace your family, your blood and pack, but somehow these kids have burrowed under your skin and stayed. It’s been a while since anyone’s stayed. 

It isn’t long until they’ve ingratiated themselves in your life, particularly your loft, making themselves at home in your space - filling up your fridge, passing out on the couch, adding subtle decorations (in Lydia’s case) that make the loft seem more like home - and you can’t help the longing feeling that swells up inside you at the sight of them all in your space, your heart simultaneously lighter and heavier, and you feel like you’re just waiting to be reprimanded for these feelings you think could be the start of something good. 

But then Scott or Boyd will clap you firmly on the shoulder in greeting. Erica and Cora will jab at your sides simultaneously when your humor becomes too dry. Lydia will squeeze your arm with affection whenever you grudgingly express your feelings. Isaac will surprise you with gentle hugs that you slowly begin to enjoy. 

You never used to let anyone touch you. You remember how you kept to yourself and out of others’ space in the hopes that they’d keep out of yours. You built up your walls with leather, dry wit, and hard glares.

You did fine by yourself.

Then _he_ came along. As much a part of your new ragtag pack as anyone else - maybe more. All long limbs, golden eyes, and smirking lips that did nothing but accentuate his cunning wit and intelligence, his fierce loyalty, and near non-existent self-preservation. 

Of course, you’d notice these things - Stiles approaches life at break-neck speed while you’ve regressed to a day-by-day survival method. Most of your early interactions involved trying to understand and decode his particular vernacular as well as dodge his many flailing limbs. 

You adapt quicker than you thought you would. 

You realize Stiles has walls too. His walls consist of long-winded diatribes and sarcastic rants about anything and everything, complete with distracting hand gestures and eye-rolls. You admire his comedic bite and brutal honesty - though you would never admit it. 

Somewhere in between the pack movie nights and near-death experiences, you start to feel settled. You notice how the pack’s numerous scents have become imbued in every surface of the loft. Hints of motor oil from Scott’s dirt bike on his jacket by the front door, Lydia’s lilac perfume on the couch pillows, the salty tang of sweat on Cora’s yoga mat, the bitter spice of Boyd’s aftershave in the bathroom, smears of Erica’s red lipstick on the mirror, Isaac’s forgotten scarf hidden in the couch cushions. 

You start to notice Stiles’ scent more than anyone else’s. It only makes sense since he’s at your place more often - drumming his fingers on the fridge door, spreading out his course work on the kitchen table, sprawled out on the couch during movie night. 

Months turn into years. You notice this passage of time by the wolf calendar Stiles bought you that hangs in the kitchen. You realize you’ve started thinking about your life in terms of weeks and months. You realize this might be because you actually have a life worth living now. 

The danger you face hasn’t disappeared though, it just wears a different face. 

You’ve saved him just as many times as he’s saved you. He has your back. The pack has your back. This terrifies you. No one’s had your back in a long time - specifically since the last time you had a pack. Ironically, you feel the most vulnerable with the most protection you’ve had in years. 

But you could lose it all. Again. You could lose _them_. You could lose _him_. And you know you couldn’t go through it again. You’re not sure who you’d be without them, if you had to start over again. 

As if these thoughts were heard by the universe - you sure as hell didn’t share them with the pack - you begin to notice a change. The betas’ sparring skills improve significantly and they work tirelessly without your direction. The pack’s group text is updated more frequently, you find that you always know where each pack member’s location is at any given time - even without your Alpha senses. The support beams in the loft have protection runes etched into them, you know this because Stiles made sure you knew the difference between the defensive and offensive wards. 

It all comes to a head when you come home from the grocery store, arms laden with bags, and you hear a familiar heartbeat inside the loft. You know it’s Stiles. You’ve known the rhythm of his heartbeat for a while now. Probably since that time he held you up in the high school pool for hours on end. You listened so intensely to his heart that night, the boy was so hopped up on adrenaline and fear, you were worried he was going to pass out from exertion. 

You push open the loft door and nearly drop your bags. You’re used to Stiles randomly dropping in and hanging out, scouring what’s left of the Hale library for research and napping on your couch, but the sight before you is new. Stiles sits at your kitchen table, leg bouncing underneath him, hands clasped steadily in front of him. 

“Hey,” you say, moving to set the bags on the kitchen island.

Stiles mouth quirks in a semi-smile, “Hey, yourself.” He pushes the other stool out from under the table with his foot. “I’ll help you put everything away. Just - sit for a sec.”

Your body tenses - you should have seen this coming. Everything is going so well, the pack is coming together, there hasn’t been any supernatural incidents in a while, you are starting to get closer to Stiles in the ways you’ve always wanted —

You sit, feeling the weight of your past hunch your shoulders. You lean your elbows on your knees, focusing your gaze on the middle of the table.

“Derek, look at me,” he says. You meet his molten gaze. “Nothing is wrong.” You nearly snort out loud. 

Everything that’s good in your life, ends. Why should this be any different? 

“I just thought this would be better coming from me… we’ve been through a shit-storm together, you and me.” His mouth quirks for real this time in the way you so love. It’s tainted with the reality of his words though. Of course, he would want to let you down directly, for the sake of the pack, for the sake of your friendship. 

Everyone you love leaves you after all. 

“I’m worried about you.” It’s nearly a whisper but it strikes you as hard as if Stiles had yelled it. This doesn’t sound like someone who’s cutting their losses. 

You search his face, earnest and serious in a way you’ve only ever seen when he talks about his father. 

“Life’s been shitty to us,” he starts. “Probably you more than me.” He huffs a half laugh.

All you can say is, “It’s not a contest, Stiles.” 

You know things haven’t been easy for him either - first his mother, the reveal of werewolves, his friends’ deaths, the Nogitsune… You know even now he still has nightmares. He’s still afraid of the dark, confined spaces, sleeping alone - he even still counts his fingers when he thinks no one’s watching - but you do. He taught you that trick. 

Stiles looks away briefly and you know by the way his features fall slack and the way his eyes go distant that he’s thinking about everything too. All you can do is lay your hand on his wrist and squeeze gently. You can almost see him reel himself back to the present, nodding sharply. You do this for each other. Neither of you have uttered the word “anchor” but the connotation is there, you bring each other back down to earth. 

“Lately,” Stiles stops and huffs a breath out. “Lately, you’ve been distant. From the pack. From- from me.” He meets your gaze and the familiar wave of guilt licks your insides. 

“We’ve tried to make things easier for you, give you less to brood over, but I’ve noticed the way you’re pulling back, Der.” 

It’s the nickname that gets you. Stiles only uses it when you’re alone, just the two of you. It’s the simplest thing, but it makes you think of Laura and Cora and your mother. The way they would tack on -Bear when you were being particularly petulant or distant. And now, every time Stiles uses it, it’s like they’re right there, asking you why you’re resorting to this behavior again. 

It works every time. 

Stiles waits. People usually underestimate his patience when they first meet the energetic, fast-talking man. But you know better than everyone else. And he knows you better than anyone else. 

The silence coaxes the words slowly from your throat. “I’m… afraid.” Stiles’ head dips in acknowledgement. You know he’s familiar with this feeling. The pack lives in fear every day - being found out, outside threats, dying, losing each other. They’ve been through it all. 

“I’m afraid of… losing everyone again,” you grit out, eyes prickling. 

Stiles grips your hand, thumb over thumb like a pact. “I can’t give you false hope, Der. Not with our track record and not with our supernatural beacon of a town.” 

You try to huff out a laugh, but your chest tightens at his words and your breath is caught in your throat. This is why Stiles is here for you, he doesn’t sugarcoat anything. He’s always been what you need.

“But I can tell you that we’re more prepared now than your family ever was back then. We learned from the past. We’re smart.” You give him an arched eyebrow and he amends, “Okay, some of us research more than others, but we’re better together. We have allies now. We’re strong. And you’re stronger than you used to be. You brought us together and made us a resilient pack.” 

You rest your forehead on his hand clasped around yours and take a shuddering breath. With every word he utters, you can feel your heart beat slowing.

“Derek,” he whispers, his breath tickling the hairs on the back of your neck, his other hand combing fingers through your hair. “You can’t be afraid to live again.”

And just like that you’re fifteen again. It was right after you killed Paige and all you could feel were her cold limbs in your arms, all you could smell was the cloying black blood of sickness on her lips, and all you could hear was the last weak thud of her heart. For months after, you couldn’t get out of bed, you didn’t sleep, you didn’t eat. You were absolutely distraught and terrified and your mother took you in her arms and said the same thing. 

You raise your head and meet Stiles’ gaze. His face is unguarded, soft in a way he isn’t around anyone else. He’s searching your face for something, brain probably whirring through half a dozen more motivational speeches, but you’ve heard enough. 

Just as he’s about to speak again, you lean in and press your lips against his. It’s short, measured, but you linger, hoping he’ll return the action. 

He begins to untangle your fingers from his and you have a moment of panic that he’s rejecting you before he grabs your face to deepen the kiss. 

Your heart soars, trying to escape from your throat as you both breathe heavily through noses, hands and lips wandering across shoulders and chests, faces and necks. You both rise up out of your chairs, bumping into the table, bodies aligning and groans deepening. 

You have never felt this happy since before the fire, but you’ve never felt this kind of love… ever. Your heart beats fast and heavy in your chest, saturated with the feelings you’ve kept at bay for so long. 

When tears begin to roll down your face, smearing against Stiles’ cheek, he pulls back from your lips and thumbs away the moisture on your face. “I’m really that bad at kissing, huh?” You choke out a laugh as Stiles quirks his lips in that lopsided smirk. 

You wrap your arms around his frame and tuck your head underneath his chin, seeking out his calming scent. Stiles’ arms wrap around your shoulders, cradling your head, and you feel truly safe for the first time in a long time. 

You’ve known for a while that Stiles is your anchor, that the pack grounds you. But in this moment, you realize that they have cultivated this feeling of safety, this familial connection based so much on trust and understanding. Throughout the years of strife and death, they’ve continued to show each other strength and support. 

Like a family. Like a pack. You realize that you’ve found, and helped to rebuild, what you lost. 

Because it’s only then, safe in Stiles’ arms, that you realize they’ve helped you find yourself again. The _you_ before the fire. They’ve given you a reason to look forward instead of back. The prospect of living on isn’t as terrifying and guilt-inducing as it once was. 

If worse comes to worse, as you know it so often does, and you lose everyone you love all over again, you know you will be able to live on, you will rebuild again. Because while loss and grief have shaped who you are, they do not define you. Your pack has shown you that. Stiles has shown you that.

You are more than your past. You have a future.


End file.
